A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(21)

“He sure can move when he wants to be the driver, despite all that arthritis,” she said. “Mr. Buchanan, you were absolutely right—Marcie has the flu. She’s going to need to rest, drink plenty of fluids and she probably won’t feel well for at least a couple of days—maybe closer to a week, depending on how quickly she bounces back after some rest and medicine. Now, I offered to take her back to town and put her up at Doc’s, but she’d rather stay here. The question is—are you willing? It’s not as though you have to do that much for her—Doc cleared her for use of the outdoor facilities as long as she dresses warm. She doesn’t need much attention, but it’s your home.”

“She wants to stay?” he asked, eyebrows arched. “Here?”

“She said that, yes. She also said to tell you she has eighty dollars for her food.”

“Lord,” he said, shaking his head. “If she wants to stay, she can stay. I can’t see why she’d want to. It’s not like I’m good company.”

“I think she’s very grateful for how well you’ve tended her so far. Maybe there are other reasons, but she didn’t share them. But just so we’re clear—I can come and get her anytime and we have a couple of hospital beds at the clinic. It’s your decision. If it becomes a burden, you can let me know.”

“I’ll do my best. I bought some broth. Juice. A half chicken for soup that should go at least twice.”

“Good idea. I swear by chicken soup. I guess you’re on top of this. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Did you give her medicine?”

“Doc gave her a shot of antibiotic that probably won’t perform any miracles, it being a viral flu. And he left her some pills and cough medicine. It’s really tincture of time. The flu will do what it will do—sometimes it’s a quick cure, sometimes it hangs on. Luckily, she’s young and healthy. Try not to catch it, will you?”

He pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket and Mel, who had worked with Doc in these mountains for a while now, suspected that would be the whole of his fiduciary world. Most rural people way out here didn’t deal with credit cards or checks; for many it was a cash existence. That wad of money would have to cover everything in his life, from fuel to food, for quite a while. “What do I owe you?” he asked.

“Well, let’s see. I’m thinking ten for the shot and another ten for the pills and cough medicine.”

“And for the house call?”

“Five for gas?” she said, by way of a question.

“And that’s it?” he asked. “You cutting me some kind of break here? She give you money or something?”

Mel smiled. “No money from the patient. We’re not exactly trading on the exchange yet. This isn’t big business, it’s just country medicine—clean and simple. It’s important to break even whenever we can—helps us out in the long run.”

“What would you charge me if I lived in a big house and drove a hot car?” he asked.

“We’d bill the insurance and take them for a ride,” she answered easily. Then she grinned at him.

He laughed in spite of himself. Old Doc didn’t have himself a pretty young nurse or Hummer when Raleigh was sick and dying, but he always said, “You’re eighty-eight and sick as a damn dog—I’m not taking all your money and leaving you nothing for a burial.” Ian pulled off three tens and gave them to her. “You eating all right at your house? I’m not shorting you?”

“I’m covered—I very cleverly married the guy in town who owns the bar and grill. I’m eating way better than I should. And by that belly on Doc, he’s living well enough, too. But thanks. It’s appreciated. I’ll put the extra toward someone in trouble, I promise.”

“That’s good,” he said. “I got a lot to make up for.”

She put out her hand. “I bet not as much as you think.” He shook the small hand and she hurried to the car and was gone.





When Ian finally came back inside, he didn’t say a word. He fed the fire again, took off his jacket and went to what passed for his kitchen. He rolled up his sleeves and scrubbed his hands with soap and cold water. Next he pumped a pan full of water and set it on his little propane stove, unwrapped a half a chicken and plopped it in the water. He cut up an onion and some celery and put it in the pot. Then he put his jacket back on and went outside where she could hear the thumping that went along with loading wood into the truck. Whistling came eventually, but there didn’t seem to be any singing today. She hoped she hadn’t driven the music out of him. The singing was a complete surprise. Bobby never mentioned it and it certainly hadn’t come up in their few exchanged letters. But then would a big tough marine serenade his troops? Would he tell a soldier’s wife that he loved to sing and had an angel’s voice?

Her joints ached and she was feeling warm again, so she rolled over and let herself go back to sleep. She was vaguely aware that Ian was in and out of the cabin. She drifted. Now and then, she could hear the wood chopping, whistling, thunking of firewood into the truck bed.

She had no idea how long she’d slept, when she roused to the most pleasant smell. She rolled over to find the room dim, just the glow from the woodstove and a naked lightbulb hanging over the kitchen table. The sun had set and the big pot was steaming on the little stove. He was sitting at the table under that single light, looking down. She noticed that the things from her car—her sleeping bag, duffel, backpack and purse—were stacked at the end of the sofa. And he had changed clothes; he wore gray sweatpants and a navy blue T-shirt and socks. His former pants, shirt and jacket were draped over his trunk, near a stack of books piled on the floor.